The humming of the mower, a sign of civilizing nature; musn’t let the grass grow past the collar of the curb.
Certainly Mother would appreciate the trimming of the branches of the maples that reach out brotherly to each other, for the wires of human communication are more important to be sure.
And the peaches reaching skyward are not for angels’ picking, but for man, ground-bound and not thinking of the heavens but of jam.
But shall I sow the seeds in fresh turned soil, my own opinions what should grow, lettuce yes, but chickweeds, no; patrol the pathways in between for man is master of the earth, no?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology